


Firsts

by Sajo



Series: 인호 & 상준 (깡패관계) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: ...slightly...maybe??, Age Difference, First Meetings, First Time, Fist Fights, Korean Characters, M/M, Minor Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Praise Kink, Rivalry, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sajo/pseuds/Sajo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer of 1976, Busan. It's a season of firsts for Sangjun in his last year of high school: the first time he runs into—and picks a fight with—the so-called Tiger of West District; and the first time Mr. Jeon makes a move, compelling Sangjun to acknowledge a fundamental part of himself. </p><p>[A two-part <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3234905">backstory</a>, though it kind of makes sense as a standalone.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Choi Inho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sangjun gets into a fight with Inho.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Translations:**  
>  Seo-gu (서구) = West District in the city of Busan  
> Chungmudong (충무동) = a neighborhood in Seo-gu that borders Jung-gu (중구, Central District)  
> yangachi (양아치) vs. geondal (건달) = both mean "gangster" but have different connotations, with yangachi being marginally more negative (e.g. "hoodlum" vs. "gangster")  
> yangban (양반) = "aristocracy"  
> noona (누나) = "older sister" (blood-related or not) when used by a younger male
> 
> Action scenes are hard to write... :x

_11 June, 1976_

Sangjun doesn't really care for movie outings. Everyone attends them, everyone is supposed to enjoy them, because it's one of the few cheaper, leisure activities around—and thus, by default, a very popular 'student' thing to participate in. Most of the movies are shit though, and Sangjun suspects the one premiering today is also going to be shit. He's already bored with the prospect.

But then again, he's really just here to pass the time with his friends. Outside the oppressive confines of school grounds, where he can relax his posturing a bit and act like any other fun-loving student...

No. That's only half-true. When you're the offspring of Lee Gyeongha, a gangster by bloodline, even a second son like Sangjun—born to a second wife—you can't afford to let your guard down. Not if you want respect and want to keep it. Even if it gets goddamn tiring to keep up appearances.

Students stumble away, clearing the space around him so he isn't being jostled as he makes his way down the crowded block, toward the main entrance at the cinema plaza. He isn't out to pick on innocent students, never really been, but the freshly stitched gash at his temple probably fuels his notoriety. Its dull throbbing reminds him to take it easy, and his fingers twitch as he stops himself from touching it. He idly curses himself for the dumb mistake: taking a picket sign to his head while sabotaging a labor meeting on behalf of some self-professed commie-hunting politician. He doesn't care for names; his father's gang occasionally supplements their income with political thuggery, and as long as there are jobs coming in, it's not his place to question.

He's never figured out how he's supposed to juggle schoolwork with maintaining his clout in school and helping the family business, but he's been doing it...begrudgingly. Schoolwork, while tedious, isn't difficult. It's his last year too, and he doesn't want to repeat the grade when the finish line is so close. Becoming just another high school dropout at this point is pathetic. Not that there's anything wrong or unusual about being a dropout; his elder half-brother Hyukjoon is one.

Seven years older than Sangjun, Hyukjoon has enough ability to already have taken over a third of their father's affairs—and do well. He wields authority easily, although he's feared for his ruthlessness more than respected for his business decisions. The latter is what Sangjun's for. Useful as he is, however, Sangjun has never been the favored son or brother, so he's kept his options open.

Ancheol excitedly taps Sangjun's shoulder, loudly pointing out an ice cream vendor at the outskirts of the plaza, and proceeds to barrel through the sweaty throng of students surrounding the cart, ignoring the squawking complaints. Jungwoon exchanges an amused glance with Sangjun, while Changseok wades in after Ancheol. The three guys have been with Sangjun since first year of high school. Jungwoon, the only son of one of Lee Gyeongha's men, is a childhood friend. Changseok comes from a dirt-poor family, as scrappy as any street rat, but he has a brilliant mind; it's what drew Sangjun to him, that first year of high school. Ancheol is a butcher's son, a powerhouse in the streets, and a great blustering storyteller.

Sangjun resignedly goes after Ancheol. Ice cream is still considered a luxury, though not quite as much as it was when he was in primary school. He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. These days, with the sort of business his folks are dabbling in, he always has some extra cash on him; more than what his friends have, anyway.

Finishing his purchase of four popsicles, Sangjun escapes the crush around the vendor before starting to enjoy his treat. The freezing cold on his tongue is a welcome relief from the sweltering summer heat. One of the shitty aspects of moviegoing (summertime is pretty much the only time there's any half-decent selection of movies) is dealing with the heat and stink of hundreds of students—first packed in the streets and then stuffed tightly into the cinema.

His group slowly makes their way toward the huge line of students winding around the corner of the cinema building. Ancheol is enthusiastically recounting one of his stories as he and Jungwoon cut in line at a random spot, completely uncaring about the glares (and subsequent cowering, as the unlucky students realize what the group is). Sangjun stands outside the line and hands Changseok some bills so he can buy tickets.

There's a brief lull in Ancheol's story when the subtle shift in the crowd's noise steals Sangjun's attention. He glances back, where some students are looking, to see the clear profile of a giant of a boy who is literally parting waves as he strolls nonchalantly up the block.

Only half-listening to his friend, Sangjun licks away the sticky-sweet droplets gathering at the bottom of the popsicle and assesses the newcomer. Even with his rare, imposing stature, the guy is clearly a student. There's a slight softness to his pleasant-looking face, and his long limbs make it seem like he hasn't fully grown into his healthy bulk. Most obviously though, it's the summer uniform: black student cap, tan-colored slacks, and off-white shirt, the edges of its short sleeves decorated with two narrow black bands. Hyegwang High, from the neighborhood to the south.

 _What the hell is he doing here?_ The Two Princes Theater is in Sangjun's turf, and it's supposed to be too out-of-the-way for any Hyegwang hotshot to swagger through. Sangjun bites off the tip of his popsicle as he notes the guy's arrogant stride. Reminiscent of so many of the other 'tough' guys he's run across and beat down...

...Except, there's something more, something truer and more natural in the Hyegwang student's fluid grace. It's the absolute confidence radiating from his whole being, drawing the gaze with a peculiar charm. The rakish tilt of his cap and the modestly buttoned shirt, impeccably straight posture, bag slung jauntily over a broad shoulder, the crisp hems of his pressed slacks and the sheen of his leather shoes. A well of aggression bubbles up in Sangjun, his accelerating heartbeat ringing in his ears, as he tracks the smooth gait of long, lean legs.

 _The fucker is just begging for a thrashing_ , Sangjun grumbles internally, when a sudden rumble of infectious laughter, distinct even over the noise of so many students, compels his eyes to travel up again. Up a solid chest, up to the peek of well-defined collarbones and the strong curves of his sun-kissed neck and sharp cut of a masculine jawline—the shadows dipping into attractive dimples, eyes brimming with mirth...and he's—

_He's beautiful._

Sangjun blinks. His mouth feels dry all of a sudden, and his heart is still thud-thudding way too loud against his chest. This kind of shit—getting oddly worked up over something completely random about guys—has been happening with increasing frequency lately. But, to actually package those fleeting thoughts and honest admiration like that...

He shifts his attention to the receivers of that radiant smile. Girls. The guy is flirting with a couple of Myungnam girls.

For fuck's sake. A dumb playboy.

Releasing some of the tension in his shoulders and shaking off his momentary idiocy, Sangjun turns away from the sight. He smiles at Ancheol's exaggerated gestures as he continues his hilarious account of a run-in with a two-bit pimp. _Yeah, stop being stupid_ , he tells himself...even as he keeps the intruder in the periphery of his awareness. He can appreciate good looks, but he's caught enough womanizing fools in compromising positions and rendered them powerless with blackmail that it's hard not to feel contempt for skirt-chasing wannabe casanovas.

Not a second later, he hears, "Hey, isn't that Choi Inho?" and, "What—the Tiger of Hyegwang? Why would be come here?"

And _that_ recaptures his interest. Every boy in the west-central district who has any pride in his strength has at least heard of the mighty Choi Inho: undefeated in fist fights, in both his school and the streets; Hyegwang's judo champion and provincial finalist; youngest son of Chungmudong's wealthiest merchant. As Ancheol continues his story and Jungwoon chortles at all the appropriate moments, Sangjun cuts another glance at Inho.

Their eyes meet—a second, maybe two, passes between them and Sangjun thinks he sees a flash of dismissive acknowledgment—before Inho's attention returns to his girls.

Sangjun resolutely turns away from the scene, tries to ignore Inho's steady approach. It's really goddamn loud, the crowd has only gotten thicker, and it's too hot to pick a fight, and he couldn't care less. Really. He's not so bored that he needs to pick a fight. Whatever. He dismisses any potential for confrontation and gives Ancheol his full attention.

At least, until he's body-checked by what feels like a fucking wall.

Sangjun is used to others moving out of his way and avoiding him, so it's a surprise. His reflexes aren't quick enough to grab his popsicle from the air before it plops to the ground, only half-savored and what a goddamn fucking waste.

"What the fuck," he growls, sparing a glance at the gruesome splatter before whipping around to see Inho's back, which is shaking from laughter from whatever his friends have said. "Hey," Sangjun tries, and then, " _Hey_!" he strides forward, shoving bodies away. He grabs an arm like steel and yanks back with enough force that Inho nearly stumbles back.

There's a sudden tension in the two-meter radius where Inho, Sangjun, and their friends stand. The girls have retreated into the ring of spectators beginning to form around them. Inho turns lazily, grin fading as he flicks his loaded gaze down to meet Sangjun's scowl.

...So much goddamn _arrogance_. It's like a fucking art, the way he's looking down his nose—with the perfect little tilt of his head, and the perfect jut of his chin, and the goddamn _perfect_ angle of the cap's shadow across his eyes.

This must be the face of a blue-blooded yangban, Sangjun thinks, transfixed. The fading amusement and the subtle condescending twist of lips, cool eyes regarding him with barely veiled annoyance...and then the oh-so-noble Tiger raises an eyebrow, and finally—finally, Sangjun's mouth works.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I'm just another student," drawls Inho, "here to watch a movie. Now run along, little boy."

The insult makes it hard for Sangjun to keep his cool. He wears the third-year button on the collar of his uniform; one of the few school regulations that he obeys 'just because'. He's not going to react with violence, though—not yet. He's pretty sure this is a standard taunt for Inho, whose height makes everyone else look like a kid in comparison. "The Tiger should stay in his territory instead of wandering up to mine to stir up trouble."

"Like I said, I'm just here for a movie." Inho's expression shows no intention of backing down. "This is public space."

"It is. So watch where you're going shithead, and fucking apologize when you run into someone." For emphasis, Sangjun shoves Inho's chest.

Inho takes a half-step back, sweeping his uncaring gaze down Sangjun's form. "What are you, some kind of yangachi trash?"

As though Sangjun has absolutely no principles... "I'm a geondal, you arrogant fuck."

"Like that's something to be so proud of. You fucks are all the same. Letting you stay in school..." Inho smirks. Arrogance at its finest, and yet, Sangjun thinks, also a disconcertingly good look on that handsome face. "Are Myungnam's admins high? Must be—probably on the drugs you deal them."

That is fucking _enough_.

Inho's head whips to the side as Sangjun lands a solid backhand across his cheek. The black student cap lands on the dirt as the crowd "ooooh"s.

"Oh. Did I catch the mighty Tiger by surprise?" Sangjun mocks.

Inho very deliberately tilts his head to look at Sangjun, his incredulous expression turning stormy as he casually tosses aside his book bag. "Try that again," he growls, low—and _fuck_ if that dangerous tone doesn't send a jolt through Sangjun—"and you won't be able to walk when I'm done with you."

"Impressive. You sound just like a common street thug." With that, Sangjun does try again because clearly, the Tiger is itching for a fight, and this time, his wrist is caught in a bruising grip.

A split second where their eyes are locked, aggression sparking between them—and then Sangjun drives his fist into Inho's side, but his knuckles only brush against fabric and he takes it in stride when Inho attempts to kick his legs out from under him. His wrist is still trapped, he can feel his bones creaking under the pressure, but before either of them can make another move, Jungwoon tackles Inho. An effective distraction that allows Sangjun to wrench himself free, and he instinctively takes a step back as Ancheol, cursing up a storm, follows right at Jungwoon's heels.

And then the fight begins in earnest when one of Inho's friends retaliates with a goddamn Bruce Lee movie-worthy flying kick that fells Ancheol, whose sleeve is decorated with a dusty shoe-print as he slides into the feet of some bystanders. The crowd is near deafening with their yelling and cheering, but Sangjun is used to being a spectacle by now.

Sangjun checks to make sure that Ancheol stands up, before looking back just in time to witness Inho score a neat punch on Jungwoon's jaw. Fuck, a knock-out? No—Jungwoon isn't that weak. He staggers back, probably seeing stars. Changseok, back from the ticket booth, joins the fray as Ancheol hurtles himself back into the fight, which is increasingly turning to Inho's favor, and shit...Sangjun can't help his begrudging admiration.

Inho and his flying-kick friend are good. The other friend, meanwhile, has his hands full with book bags and caps. He's flitting around the sidelines like a little mouse, doing an impressive job of blustering, but this is a Myungnam crowd, and Sangjun can see some of the students glaring at the guy.

His attention snaps back to the brawl when he sees Inho's foot send up a cloud of dust as it slams into Changseok's chest. That kick is immediately followed by another one: a sharp, flashy spin-kick to the side of Changseok's face.

It's a KO this time, and Sangjun winces, concerned with how heavily Changseok falls because that kind of hit can do a lot of damage, even as he marvels at how the Tiger risked an opening just to look cool.

How brash must Inho be, to display such ostentatious—but fucking _perfect_ —form at a time like this? Sangjun's friends are scrappy street-brawlers; they get the job done, one way or another, and are used to taking a beating. But Inho definitely has formal training, which seems like overkill when he already has plenty of assets—size, speed, guts galore, overwhelming confidence—and he makes the whole fight look so _goddamn easy_...

It's infuriating, how easily Inho and his friend counter Ancheol and Jungwoon's attacks. And strangely captivating.

"Oi," Inho sighs, "this is pathetic." He tilts his head to look at his friend. "What do you think, Jongdae?"

A smirk slashing across his sun-dark face, Jongdae grunts in assent. "Way too easy."

Inho matches his friend's expression. "What happened to all that proud geondal-talk?" he addresses Sangjun and glances dismissively at Ancheol and Jungwoon, at Changseok still laid out on the dust. "You guys are supposed to be tough little thugs, but it's not looking like much of a fair fight now, is it?"

Anger—and something else—simmering in his blood, Sangjun replies, "We're just getting started."

"Yeah?" Inho grins, confident and goading, and Sangjun nearly reels from the sharp pang of excitement at the sight. "Come on then."

Sangjun moves; it's time he stopped standing around watching passively.

In short order, Ancheol and then Jungwoon are knocked out. Not for long though, Sangjun hopes, as he coldly punches Jongdae's solar plexus in retaliation, putting him out of commission. He ignores the harmless mouse.

The brawl is a proper fist fight now, one-on-one.

Arrogance backed up by skill, powerful and charismatic and beautiful...Sangjun can't stop thinking, _So the Tiger really does live up to his name_.

Fights usually don't—shouldn't—take long. Sangjun knows; Inho knows. You don't waste precious energy and you don't risk dangerous openings to look good, especially when there's more on the line than an adrenaline rush. But as time and space and movement all blur together until there's nothing substantial except the cleansing thrill of a violent chase, Sangjun thinks he can afford something better than a quick and dirty scuffle.

No. He has no _choice_ but to drag it out. The way Inho blocks and counters (Sangjun can't land any critical hits), the way he's playing around...he wants to give the audience a show, and it's working.

Sangjun, too, finds himself lost in the vitalizing competition. Technique, speed, size, stamina—they all matter here. It's not just about scoring a win.

He doesn't know how long he hounds Inho, how many bruises they're landing on each other, but suddenly they're bursting through the doors of the cinema, knocking over people and cardboard cutouts, crashing into pillars and booths. Until Sangjun sees an opening—Inho's not the only one who knows how to use kicks—and takes it.

The flat of his foot lands solidly on Inho's abs, and the force of it makes Inho practically fly back into—and through—a display case full of photos and movie memorabilia.

The sound of glass breaking and shelves upending is startlingly clear through the cacaphony of spectators. Shards of glass litter the floor as Inho slides to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. He's in too much pain to immediately regain his bearings, broad shoulders heaving as he hunches over his stomach. Red blooms brightly on his shoulder and down what Sangjun can see of his back, but Sangjun can't bring himself to feel sorry at all. The Tiger can deal with a few cuts; it's what he gets for picking a fight with Sangjun.

It's not a very long wait, though, for Inho to recover.

Inho shakes his head and briskly wipes the blood dribbling down his forehead, matting his hair. He looks up with an expression so intensely focused, so full of fire, a shiver runs down Sangjun's back, and then he's on his feet again, tweaking the hem of his shirt and rolling his shoulders to dislodge smaller pieces of glass, never taking his eyes off Sangjun's.

"You managed to get me there real good," Inho growls, smiling dangerously. His heavy breathing is still unsteady. "Congratulations."

The fight moves outside again.

Sangjun hasn't had this much exhausting fun in a long time. It's a boyish quarrel, a challenge without hideous consequences against a guy who can hold his own.

And...he just can't get enough of Hyegwang's famed Tiger.

For reasons beyond trying to read the next moves, Sangjun can't take his eyes off Choi Inho, who is so beautifully heated up now, with none of the previous high-and-mighty yangban composure.

He's being foolish, he knows.

Because you don't admit it—not even to yourself—when your eyes linger just a moment too long on a graceful form, or when a low rumbling voice makes goosebumps prickle your skin, when the scent of another's fresh sweat makes your heart race or the sight of a bold grin shoots pleasure through your veins. Those kinds of feelings have no place here, right now, and—

He's distracted when he shouldn't be, when he's tired and he knows that a split second of inattention can trip him up. He barely sees the arcing blur in time to bring up an arm to protect his face.

It's an instant where he hear/feels a sickening _crack_ giving way under the impact.

He stumbles backwards into the frenetic crowd of students, and as they surge and shove him back into the makeshift ring, numbness in his right arm morphs into a familiar, unwelcome pain—and goddamn it, the powerful kick has fractured bone and he doesn't know if it's one or both in his forearm.

To allow that kick to land—to forget about defending properly, let alone taking advantage of the momentary opening...

Sangjun ignores the pain. It's not too difficult with the adrenaline still rushing through his bloodstream. He's hyperaware of the students' rising agitation as he slowly circles the ring, eyes fixed on Inho's. The Tiger looks damn feral, with blood still seeping from his forehead and mixing with sweat to drip into his eye, stain his uniform collar. Fire keeps running up Sangjun's right arm. They keep their gazes locked, neither of them willing to jump back into action just yet.

He's lost all feeling in his fingers when the crowd, suddenly emboldened, closes in—and Inho's bright, blazing eyes leave Sangjun's as he turns to fight off the mob.

...What the _fuck_.

As the bodies press into him, Sangjun hurls angry curses at the crowd, trying to get their damn attention because this is NOT how a proper fist fight is supposed to go!

Almost immediately, however, police whistles rip through the air; the mob of students scatter as quickly as they formed.

Sangjun shoves his way against the tide. He barely catches a glimpse of Inho crouching next to his friend, who's bleeding profusely from his face, before a whistle screeches close to his ear and he's roughly grabbed. When his fractured arm is taken in a rough, unforgiving grip, he's unable to bite back a yelp of pain, but he quickly manages to growl a warning at the officers. He receives a few cuffs to his head for that insubordination, but at least they stop agitating his injury.

Gritting his teeth, black spots wavering alarmingly across in his vision, he sees Inho being hauled up and led away behind a corner, in a relatively gentler fashion. _Damn the police and their inconvenient timing_ , Sangjun thinks as he leans his head against the wall.

It's strangely draining, the sudden end to the fight, the cessation of the audience's din.

He closes his eyes to keep the slight nausea at bay while officers disperse the students hanging around to witness the spectacle of one of their own getting apprehended—or about to. An officer hovers over Sangjun but otherwise leaves him alone, gives him space to calm down.

He thinks a few minutes pass like that.

 _...What the_ fuck _are they waiting for...?_

And then he hears Inho's voice again, faint and apologetic. He opens his eyes to see Inho bowing to Officer Kim, who instructs him in an annoyingly booming voice to get his troublemaking ass to the hospital and does he need an escort? Inho shakes his head, lifts a casual thumb at Sangjun's direction, and the officer looks at Sangjun with a disapproving frown.

"You again," Officer Kim grouses as he approaches. The man has a naturally loud voice, which is right now giving Sangjun a headache to accompany the lingering lightheadedness. Sangjun insolently meets the officer's eyes. "I thought it was too quiet around here. You just can't keep away from trouble, can you?"

Sangjun doesn't bother answering. He watches as Inho picks up a still-groggy Jongdae, as the little mouse scurries to their side, as they leave the scene. He wonders if Inho has gotten any satisfaction from the fight.

"It's your lucky day, you hellion," Officer Kim says, shoving Sangjun forward. "When I heard you were staying in school, I thought Lee Gyeongha's shit luck with sons was finally getting better. Though you haven't committed a felony or killed anyone yet, so I suppose his luck's holding."

Sangjun has no appropriate reply to that oblivious comment. It's also difficult to focus when every clumsy step jars his forearm. When he's pretty sure he won't throw up, he only mutters, "You went too easy on him, old man." He gathers his three guys; Jungwoon and Ancheol have to support Changseok, who's still out cold from Jongdae's last hit. "Is Chungmudong's Baron spreading favors to even the Seobu Police Station? Or perhaps it's family connections. Your superintendent's a Choi, isn't he, but there are plenty of unrelated Choi's—"

Officer Kim smacks the back of Sangjun's head, hard. "Keep running your mouth, I'll change my mind. And show some respect for your betters."

Sangjun shuts up. Usually, after he's caught red-handed in a brawl, he gets thrown in a cell for disturbing the peace for a few hours, at whatever tiny local police office, to cool off. Nothing serious, but he doesn't want to deal with that today.

They arrive at a local clinic. Under Officer Kim's watch, Sangjun's friends are given perfunctory treatment. They get to leave first and Sangjun shoos them away as the nurse frets over his arm. It hurts like hell but he's dealt with it before. After some patronizing lectures about good behavior and damages to property and a warning that his school will have to be contacted, Officer Kim leaves. It takes a while longer for the nurses to put on the cast. Sangjun resigns himself; nobody likes casts, but for him—so used to the mobility critical for his lifestyle—it's a special kind of torture.

Soon enough, he's free to go, and he grumpily thanks the nurses. Outside, he takes a moment to breathe in the cooling evening air; the miserably sticky heat is starting to ease up.

A good, old-fashioned fist fight, with a guy too confident and too fucking beautiful to be real, and a free pass...as much as Sangjun resents that he couldn't finish the match, that he ended up with a broken arm, it's been a good afternoon. Much better than a movie.

He looks down at himself, finally paying attention to the unavoidable fact that he looks like some street rat. Too many new tears and stains in his raggedy clothes. He considers Mr. Jeon's admonishments and shrugs to himself. Might as well throw them away now, he thinks as he slowly makes his way home.

* * *

The whole fucking neighborhood seems to talk about the unfinished fight for at least the next week, and it's hard for Sangjun to not think about Choi Inho.

But he manages to keep himself busy by not skipping classes and actually taking time to finish his homework; his teachers are surprised at his renewed focus. Plus, he gets a lot better at handling knives with his left hand.

Four more long weeks, the memory of the fight takes a backseat to the flurry of Sangjun's life, and the fracture heals well. The cast comes off during the wettest week of the July monsoon season, and Sangjun's mood improves considerably. He pushes himself during physical therapy so the muscles in his forearm can quickly recover.

It's almost another fortnight before he glimpses Choi Inho again, during summer break.

A simmering late-July morning, midweek after days of warm gloomy rain, perfect for a lazy, day-long trip down to Songdo Beach. There are many local students with the same idea, but even if Songdo is the largest white-sand beach in Seo-gu, it's still relatively quiet. Sangjun's group has claimed a space at the north end, and Sangjun is taking a break from his book—a gift, sent by Mr. Jeon—when he sees Inho run past in shorts and sneakers, shirt hanging around his neck.

As the crazy fucker frolics in the rising heat, Sangjun's eyes follow the muscled back glistening with sweat and powerful calves kicking up sand behind him. He watches as a couple of Inho's buddies run after him; as Inho laughs at them when they lean their hands on their knees to catch their breath, and then leaves them behind to run toward the waves. Sangjun picks up his book again, but he can't take his eyes off of Inho, who kicks off his shoes, strips down to his briefs, plunges into the water. One of Inho's friends shouts, "Don't swim out too far! None of us can reach you if your stupid ass drowns!" and in the distance, Inho laughs and responds with, "Let's race to that ship!"

And Sangjun feels a sudden desperate urge to take Inho up on that challenge. But thankfully he's distracted by the soccer ball that taps his leg. By the time the impromptu game is over, Inho is gone.

The first week of August, in the days leading up to his birthday, Sangjun manages to complete his set of one-armed pushups within his usual time limit. He's been largely motivated by the clear image of Inho's dimpled grin and flushed cheeks, of the Tiger's cold dismissive gaze gradually heating as he realizes that Lee Sangjun is not going to make anything easy. He dreams about Inho on the beach, about their fight, and he wakes up hard to lingering dreams of what Inho might look like kneeling down on both knees...

Sangjun has a serious problem that won't go away. He doesn't even know what to call it. What he's feeling, what his disobedient body wants—what his brain is _tricking_ him into wanting—there's no concrete conceptualization of it...or, more like he doesn't want to acknowledge it.

So he just continues to do what he always does, what comes easily to him. He helps his half-brother collect protection fees, he manages the books for his father, he gets into fights to blow off steam.

He ignores the problem.

* * *

END 1/2


	2. Jeon Jaeyong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sangjun spends an evening with Mr. Jeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Translations:**  
>  geondal (건달) = "gangster"  
> hyung (형) & noona (누나) = "older brother" & "older sister" respectively, blood-related or not, when used by a younger male  
> dongsaeng (동생) = "younger brother/sister" (blood-related or not)  
> Seo-gu (서구) = West District in the city of Busan
> 
> Mr. Jeon is 45, Sangjun just turned 18.

_9 August, 1976_

"It's so good to see you, Jun." Mr. Jeon's greeting is warm, sincere as always. He raises a hand to gently frame Sangjun's cheek as he observes admiringly, "You've grown quite tall since I last visited."

They stand eye-to-eye now, which is rather encouraging. Sangjun smiles and remarks, "Hopefully I haven't stopped growing."

Mr. Jeon chuckles. Always courteous and rather distant in public, he's only so tactile and expressive when they're alone together. But Sangjun has never minded being treated like a kid—like a favored nephew, in a way—by him; he doesn't mind the avuncular affection or the nickname or the little gifts, and he's honored by the fact that Mr. Jeon seems to go out of his way to visit.

Having met Sangjun's father in school, Mr. Jeon is an old family friend. A member of the first graduating cohort of Myungnam HS (unlike geondal Lee Gyeongha, who dropped out in his third year sometime during the Korean War), he's currently the president of Seoul-based JM Corp. Even with his illustrious career track, however, he's kept contact with Sangjun's father throughout the decades, and while their relationship is largely that shared between high school alumni, they're also easygoing drinking buddies when Mr. Jeon makes his occasional trips to Busan.

It's hard for Sangjun to recall a time when he wasn't aware of Mr. Jeon's existence. He thinks he can attribute his relative willingness to get his shit together—at least, to attempt finishing high school—to the older man's influence, because even though he doesn't believe age automatically equals authority, there's an aura about Mr. Jeon that demands genuine respect, that compels Sangjun to be on his best behavior and makes him _want_ to please. And there are other things too, that simply...put him at ease: whenever they sit down together for tea or spirits, whenever he gets to listen to Mr. Jeon's fascinating tales and well-meaning admonishments...whenever he can bask in the older man's presence. The dignity with which he holds himself—the way he moves, the way he talks in calm and level tones...and his smiles—with the slightest crinkle of laugh lines framing bright, intelligent eyes...

So what if the man inspires a bit of hero-worship? As a successful geondal's son, Sangjun is better off than most of his impoverished countrymen, but his way of life is still crude, and dirty and violent, playing fast and loose with laws and morals, dangerously balanced on the edge of a darkness that can swallow up a man's humanity. Mr. Jeon lives in a completely different, _cleaner_ world—out of reach and unfamiliar but not something Sangjun particularly envies, because he's inherited a certain family legacy that is all he's ever known. This is just the way the world works, the way men's fortunes are divided, and he's content with Mr. Jeon being a ray of sunshine, a breath of fresh air, a clear polished gemstone, that occasionally graces his otherwise shabby life.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday," Mr. Jeon murmurs, brushing his thumb over the dark circle smudging the skin under Sangjun's eye. "It looks as though you had a wild weekend."

It was a good, if standard, celebration. Sangjun can't fully remember the whole weekend, but he spent Saturday night to sunrise yesterday with some of the friendlier hyungs and dongsaengs, practically drinking his father's and brother's businesses dry. Usually he curbs himself, doesn't try to step on his family's toes, but he turned 18 and Hyukjoon was cool enough with this mark of adulthood. And, he wanted to get piss-drunk, to let loose and forget all the petty shit happening out in the world and all the stupid shit plaguing his thoughts, forget the fact that he spent the last couple months in the blackest of moods.

After generally feeling like a miserable pile of crap yesterday, he still feels barely recovered, but he dragged himself to work this afternoon. And thank the heavens he was a responsible son today, because Mr. Jeon has made his first appearance in months at the bar for a chat with his old friend. Now, after the men are done catching up, and with Sangjun's father going out to a meeting, Mr. Jeon has decided to spend his valuable time with Sangjun.

They're currently the only people occupying the utilitarian 'office' where Sangjun does his accounting. Mr. Jeon looks as radiantly suave as ever, his touch as gentle and welcome as Sangjun remembers...

And suddenly, he feels a niggling discomfort at Mr. Jeon's discordant presence because he's too—too _refined_ , to be standing around with some geondal's son in here, in this stuffy, dingy, old cigarette smoke-infused box of a room.

As if reading those thoughts, Mr. Jeon steps back and asks, "Will you accompany me to dinner, Jun?"

"If it pleases you, sir." It's always a surprise (a pleasant one, though it makes Sangjun feel so out of his depth) when Mr. Jeon invites him to such occasions.

Mr. Jeon smiles. "It would very much please me, as I am in need of a dinner partner."

Sangjun ducks his head, and then notices what he's wearing. A short-sleeve shirt with the top few buttons undone and no jacket because it's the hottest month of the summer, a pair of old but neat slacks, and...rather beat-up shoes, not disgustingly grimy or anything, but still... He looks up with a question in his eyes.

"Passable, Jun." Mr. Jeon's eyes are sparkling. "You've grown so much in five months..." he murmurs and starts to turn away. "Come along now."

Obediently, Sangjun follows, locking up the room behind him, waving goodbye to a couple of the men hanging around the otherwise empty bar. He respectfully returns the smiling greeting given by Mr. Jeon's familiar personal assistant, who waves at him from the driver's seat of a fancy black car. The sun dips low behind the far western hills when, half an our later and several neighborhoods away from Seo-gu's entertainment district, they arrive at a Japanese-style restaurant nestled within a swanky residential area skirting the sea.

Sangjun is accustomed enough to fresh food and even fresher fish. He's a Busan native after all, and he spent so much of his childhood diving for the sea's edible treasures. Even with those carefree days gone though, living in the flourishing, quickly developing port city means he's still able to afford the occasional indulgence. But this oasis of a restaurant, the kinds of raw seafood— _sashimi_ , the Japanese call it—that he's enjoying with Mr. Jeon...the colorful species of fatty fish that melt in his mouth, the savory bite-sized side dishes, the exquisite presentation of it all...those are rare indeed, an exorbitant luxury that the majority of his fellow countrymen could never in their lifetime experience, and he can only imagine how costly this spread has to be.

He tries not to stuff his mouth like a slob, and he sets down his chopsticks as delicately as he can before he reaches for his sake. His attention zeroes in on Mr. Jeon, sitting across the low dining table, whenever the older man speaks, or laughs, or asks a question, or urges him to try this piece or that bit.

And he keeps wondering why Mr. Jeon is being so generous. Perhaps, with his wife firmly ensconced in Seoul and his youngest son attending high school abroad, he feels lonely whenever he comes down to Busan. Perhaps it's just in Mr. Jeon's nature to spoil his friends' children. Perhaps (more likely) there's some ulterior motive, though Sangjun can't see what Mr. Jeon is to gain from any of this. The man already has Lee Gyeongha's support and Sangjun's unquestioning admiration.

The spend a leisurely hour, almost two, dining and drinking, with laughter and harmless conversation. Mr. Jeon delights Sangjun with stories from abroad, of the people and strange customs and cool new innovations he encounters in developed countries. Sangjun's accounts are, of course, less interesting: woes of family and love from the members of the gang, tentative ideas for potentially redesigning the business venue, his progress in school...and he ends up recounting the fight with Hyegwang's Tiger.

Mr. Jeon responds with a twinkle in his eye and a laughing, "Ah, the charms of hotblooded boyhood," before he migrates to sit beside Sangjun and takes his arm, sleeve rolled up in display. He playfully says, "I too have broken a bone during competition, though I regret to say I didn't last nearly as long as you," while he runs his hand up the previously (almost grotesquely) atrophied forearm.

The light touch makes Sangjun feel weirdly giddy. "What use is this body if some schoolboy can so easily best me? Besides, it's a requirement of my job to be the last man standing in a fight."

"It shouldn't have to be..." Mr. Jeon mutters almost inaudibly, and then says, "Not quite a month since the cast has come off, but the muscles are recovered very nicely." His fingers leave Sangjun's arm to instead brush is temple. "But this..." he touches the recent jagged scar running up from the hairline, not quite well-hidden by hair yet, "this is an ugly wound. Gyeongha would—" he sighs. "I see that it's also healed well. Hm. Do you still lack a sweetheart to help patch up your scrapes?"

Sangjun laughs depreciatingly while his brain catches up to the shift in the conversation and—for some confounding reason—provides an unbidden image of Choi Inho, eyes blazing and face flushed and—...no. Fuck, that is _definitely_ not right. He turns his head away from Mr. Jeon's touch, but those elegant fingers snag his chin and impede the movement, so he opts to just lower his eyes.

Mr. Jeon is quiet for a few moments before releasing Sangjun. "You are behaving yourself, aren't you?" he asks, reaching for his sake cup. "You're going to classes, studying hard. Dressing well." He tosses back the remains of the liquor; Sangjun scrambles to grab the delicate porcelain bottle to refill Mr. Jeon's sake, and he focuses on neatly pouring the clear liquid while Mr. Jeon continues. "Women do appreciate a man who presents himself accordingly."

Great. It's the same sort of tired 'advice' that Sangjun hears from too many people around him: schoolmates, friends, gang members, noonas employed by the gang, his brother. He should always have a girl hanging off his arm; he should already have dozens of conquests to his name, quick flings with girls too timid or too bold to refuse. Frankly, he deems it the most uninteresting of the social expectations he's supposed to meet. That sentiment makes him loath to find himself a willing girl (of which, according to enough people, there are apparently 'many'), let alone a goddamn _sweetheart_...girls are plenty nice, but he doesn't feel inclined to fucking or loving them.

Before Sangjun can place the bottle on the table, it's gently taken from his grasp. He politely extends his own drained cup, two-handed, to accept the drink from the older man, and then waits.

"Why you still entertain no lover is completely beyond me, Jun." Mr. Jeon takes a sip of his sake.

Sangjun turns away respectfully and tosses back his own sake—like a cretin, but he wants to be a little less sober to keep hearing about this.

"And I am hard-pressed to believe it's due to a lack of experience."

There's a thunderous pause in Sangjun's grumbling thoughts. He stares helplessly at Mr. Jeon's teasing smile.

"Don't expect me to believe such a preposterous thing."

The trajectory of the conversation has shifted uncomfortably; the alcohol must be getting to Mr. Jeon, who's always kept his comments regarding the matter quite innocent. Sangjun fumbles his empty cup as he sets it down. He isn't some shy, clueless virgin, but this talk about 'experience' is just too strange to discuss with his father's highly successful friend—really, with any man old enough to be his father—because...well. It just belongs in cruder company.

"Sir, I don't think..." he begins, then slaps his timidity to hell and firmly says, "This seems like an inappropriate topic."

"Jun," Mr. Jeon chuckles, "I too was once your age."

...Yeah. But it's weird to imagine it.

Mr. Jeon shifts forward. "You are smart and talented," he murmurs, steady gaze never leaving Sangjun's, "...a hardworking young man," his fingers briefly skim along Sangjun's jaw, "...and too beautiful to have wasted your adolescence without enjoying it to the fullest."

'Beautiful'...? No, wait, that's not the important part. He's grown up around shit-talking gangsters and irreverent pimps, pretty bargirls and jaded hookers, but he doesn't need to be on the streets—when he's surrounded by fifty hormonal lunkheads in class all day—to 'enjoy' his adolescence. There are more than enough thirsty fucks willing to shell out their pitiful allowance for magazine cutouts of nude women to the dirt-poor but enterprising souls who dealt those goods; it's almost cute how innocent it all is, in context. There are enough delinquents willing to risk beatings and suspensions by reading questionably obtained porn during lectures; and enough loud-mouthed idiots who love to talk about girls and sex whenever they get the chance, but who so obviously have none of the experience. It's lighthearted, quality entertainment.

And... "I do have some experience," he shrugs.

Some fondling, a bit of fingering, a few brief and tepid rounds of penetrative sex—all with a couple of friendly noonas he's gotten to know through his father's business. Nothing special, nothing too involved, because it's stupid to risk fucking around too much, he's too young to be saddled with bastard children. Fuck, he doesn't want to think about the repercussions of knocking up some random schoolgirl; he's aware of the way some of those dewy-eyed girls regard him, and it's kind of annoying that his supposed scariness and unapproachability fails there—makes them burst into giggles and flutter their eyelashes instead, when he makes the mistake of looking at them.

Besides, the idea of soft curves and wet mounds and whatever the guys liked about girls that made them prattle on has never really done much to excite him, and he's fucking bored of the raunchy capers his colleagues insist on describing, and all of "It just seems like a waste of time and effort. Sex, I mean. And relationships even more so."

There's just not enough time, in between picking fights, managing the family's accounts, actually _studying_ during his free time, trying to please Mr. Jeon...and those have nothing to do with his single status. Yeah...he just can't be bothered to take interest in any of the girls that happen to cross his path.

"Ah." Mr. Jeon smiles indulgently. "But girls _have_ been throwing themselves at you."

Sangjun lifts a shoulder, reluctance making him forget his manners. "Yes, but I'm not attracted—" and that's saying a _little_ too much. He shuts his mouth, heartbeat accelerating at his slip-up.

"So your interests lie elsewhere."

"No, sir." Sangjun struggles to hide the waver in his voice as Mr. Jeon's fingers card through his hair near the fresh scar; his eyes drift shut at the pleasant sensation. "I have _no_ interest..."

"None at all?" Mr. Jeon asks softly.

And then—

Sangjun's eyes fly open at the briefest touch of lips against his. He remains frozen when Mr. Jeon draws back after that ghost of a kiss— _a kiss—a goddamn fucking_ kiss _! what in the fucking world_ —... He might not be interested or have much experience, but he's not so stupid _not_ to recognize the heat in Mr. Jeon's gaze, the heart-stopping intensity of it...

"B-but I'm not a girl," is the first thing that spews from his mouth.

Because this is an absurd situation. Men like Mr. Jeon are supposed to only be interested in kissing girls and making babies with women. He _is_ married, with offspring who are already adults, and he's supposed to choose young _women_ to have his secret extramarital affairs with, and—

It's a struggle to comprehend what's happening, "I mean, I hope I don't look like a girl..." and he'll blame the alcohol for his stupidity, because _obviously_ not—

"Of course not, Jun." Mr. Jeon is amused.

"...Oh."

Mr. Jeon takes a calm sip of his sake—an awkward beat of wordlessness, while Sangjun's heart is pounding madly and his ears are still ringing from the shock—and sedately sets his cup down before saying, "You say you've had no lover before."

Still speechless, feeling a little flushed, Sangjun looks down to avoid Mr. Jeon's eyes.

"In the interest of your continuing education, I would like to fix that state of affairs. If you will permit me."

He's been ignoring his problem—his sexual attraction to men, he can't deny the fact anymore—for the longest time, and for Mr. Jeon to offer such an opportunity now...goddamn it—he _wants_. He really fucking wants to jump into bed with Mr. Jeon, but...BUT.

He nods his head yes, while the logical part of his mind piteously whimpers, _What is going_ on _with Mr. Jeon?_ _Has he lost his fucking mind? It's one thing to have an affair with a woman...is he actually—there isn't even a proper_ word _for what this is, what I am, what we are; our kind_ _don't 'exist' in the eyes of the law, as far as society is concerned._

And as such, there is no way—no _fucking_ way—that Mr. Jeon can so baldly offer and Sangjun can so openly accept. Anxiety lances through him as he finds that he can't take control of any part of this situation. How is he to proceed? What is he supposed to do...?

_Think about Mr. Jeon's position, his reputation._

_...Right._

"Sir, you're taking a huge risk," _just for a piece of tail_... Even the venerable Mr. Jeon isn't immune to this sort of vice, but Sangjun can't dredge up any of his usual contempt.

"I know, Jun. However," Mr. Jeon wraps a hand around one of Sangjun's clenched fists, "you are worth it."

That...is profoundly heartening. Sangjun's resolve hardens, and he repays such conviction with the only thing he can offer as he finally meets Mr. Jeon's eyes. "Then, I swear to you on my mother's grave," he whispers, "I will never speak of this publicly or do anything that might expose us." This is the exact type of scandalous, blackmail-worthy material his kind sometimes takes advantage of, but he never wants to become a liability to Mr. Jeon. "I want—..." he swallows. "Please, trust me."

"I trust you," Mr. Jeon says, simply and sincerely. He brushes another chaste kiss against Sangjun's lips before he rises to feet. "Why don't we move this conversation to a more private location?"

 _Fucking yes! Thank the heavens_. Sangjun breathes easier, and when Mr. Jeon offers an elegant hand, he takes it and stands up.

A moment passes as they face each other. "Jun." Mr. Jeon rubs his thumb over Sangjun's knuckles, making no move to leave the dining room. "You must tell me. If at any point you wish to stop, only say the word."

"Yes sir," Sangjun replies, not that he _will_ anytime soon.

Mr. Jeon smiles, lets go of his hand and turns to leave. With practiced ease, Sangjun smooths out his expression before exiting the room an innocent arm's-length behind him.

Too nervous, too eager, too many thoughts swirling around in his head, he's quiet during the drive. Mr. Jeon also barely speaks—and just as well, because Sangjun isn't sure how well he can keep up an act under Mr. Jeon's honest, heat-tinged attention. This is the ulterior motive...and he has absolutely no problems with it. He's made a few harmless observations about just how fine Mr. Jeon looks; maybe his admiration _might_ lean towards what he now recognizes as a crush, or whatever people called it. But he's never actually thought about...having an affair with him, because god _damn_ is it completely inappropriate and disrespectful and _forbidden_ and—and he likes the idea way, _way_ too much.

The sky is velvety black, stars twinkling clearly even with the brightness of the full moon, when they arrive at Mr. Jeon's place: a fancy, modern-looking gated house amidst a cluster of similar units, up the hill from the much less developed part of the harbor-side neighborhood. "Have fun, kid," says the assistant, "Mr. Jeon brought back some cool new stuff," oblivious. He knows how friendly Mr. Jeon is with Gyeongha and his son, and he knows how fascinated Sangjun is by the novelties that Mr. Jeon brings back to Korea; and it isn't like Sangjun hasn't spent a few evenings—and nights, in the guest rooms—at Mr. Jeon's various residences over the years.

Sangjun nods, smiling politely, and the assistant is dismissed for the night. If he's going to hightail it out of here, he's going to have to take the bus...actually, he'll just go by foot. He knows the area; his home is only several kilometers from here. But there's no point in planning for that because, in the clarity of his thoughts now that his tipsiness has dissipated, he has no intention of running away.

It's a maddeningly sedate process. Taking off his shoes to enter the house, exploring the rooms while Mr. Jeon turns on a few lights and fans, being guided to a cushy leather armchair in the living room and handed a glass of water...Sangjun doesn't know what to do with himself. He feels like he's going to crack under the intensity of his nervous anticipation, while Mr. Jeon so patiently putters about, and when he sees him finally approaching, he hastily places the drained glass on the low coffee table.

Mr. Jeon props his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping Sangjun before he can stand up or do anything else, and bends down for a chaste peck on the lips. "Jun," he says firmly. "You _will_ tell me if you want to stop."

He _gets_ it—he nods, framing Mr. Jeon's face with hands. Kissing isn't something he's done much of, but even if he doesn't quite know how it's supposed to go, he wants more...

"Jun?"

"I will sir, yes," Sangjun says hurriedly. "Just—please..." he tilts his head up, "I want us to continue..."

"Such proper manners..." Mr. Jeon sighs. "It's quite," he ducks down for another close-mouthed kiss, "... _quite_ pleasing..."

There's barely any time to feel good about that praise before his lips are taken again, this time with a lot more heat—he opens his mouth rather timidly—a _lot_ more tongue—and he tries to respond to Mr. Jeon's satisfaction...

 _Fuck_ his inexperience. He wants this, so, _so_ badly.

It's like he's falling, like he's leaping out a second-story window during an adrenaline-fueled chase, and does he remember how to land safely and yes—of course he does—and it's almost the same sort of high, and it's like his body knows what to do. He groans into Mr. Jeon's mouth as he stands up, pushing slightly and so rudely but he needs to move, he needs _more_. He twines his arms around Mr. Jeon's shoulders, leans against the slim but sturdy body, and lets himself fall again and again into the wet, breathless kisses.

They quickly reach Mr. Jeon's bedroom. He vaguely notices that there's an actual bed, with a thick mattress and a raised bed frame, and it looks very big and very comfortable...and _fuck_ , he's so turned on, just by the kisses—he can hardly think and he needs to _touch_.

But, when he moves to unbutton Mr. Jeon's shirt, his restless hands are taken in a strong grip, and Mr. Jeon playfully says, "No, Jun, not yet," as he firmly guides them to rest on his waist. "Be good for me," he whispers against Sangjun's ear, "for just a while longer. Do not let your hands wander."

That soft command, for some unexplainable reason, makes Sangjun feel dangerously lightheaded. And he dutifully keeps his hands perched on Mr. Jeon's waist as the older man reaches up to cradle the side of his neck while leisurely pressing electrifying kisses down the other side.

The sensations are overwhelming enough that he doesn't notice his shirt is completely unbuttoned until a hand glides over the skin of his belly and down the front of his slacks. He opens his eyes (when did they even close?), to be rewarded with a gorgeous smile that sends a fresh wave of lust roaring through his veins. The warm hand against his neck—thumb gently rubbing the skin behind his ear—anchors him as those amazing lips again descend on his, and the other hand, unhurried and teasing, moves to his belt...

Mr. Jeon's patience is going to drive Sangjun crazy. He groans in frustration as the waistband of his briefs drags down too _slowly_ , catching on his erection—and he jerks back in a fit of disobedience, away from Mr. Jeon's hold, to hurriedly pull down the offending piece of underwear and step out of the slacks pooled around his ankles.

Laughter, soft and breathless and lovely, follows him as he takes a couple steps backwards, and his strangely weak legs give out when they hit the edge of the bed. He sits bonelessly on the covers, unsure of what to do after that flurry of impatient activity, every inch of his skin tingling with pleasure. He can't hear his thoughts over the hammering in his chest, over his light panting (why is he so breathless? it's not like he's been running a race), and he's mesmerized by the sight of Mr. Jeon's legs and the sign of interest straining the front of his slacks...

"Lift your head, Jun." Mr. Jeon's fingertips are a delicate sensation under his chin. "Let me see your handsome face."

Blushing rather violently, Sangjun obeys as his hands automatically return to their proper place, clutching at Mr. Jeon's slim waist. He's never done this for anyone, never displayed himself like this. No one has ever appraised him this way—like he's something delightful and delicate and worthy of admiration, not the roughened street-fighting delinquent he is—and he doubts he'll ever let anyone else be in a position to try.

It's hard to meet Mr. Jeon's eyes for too long, and he averts his gaze after a few moments.

Mr. Jeon remarks wonderingly, "I have never seen you so _shy_..." as he smoothes his palms down Sangjun's shoulders. And he's more than aware of that—of just how vulnerable he _wants_ to be. "I know I'm asking a lot from you, Jun," Mr. Jeon's breath feathers against his lips, "but you are doing so, _so_ very well."

Oh... _fuck_ , there's _so much_ warm approval in that voice.

A hot wave of satisfaction and sharp arousal roils through his body and Sangjun has no clue why it feels so fucking _good_ to hear such words, when usually he hates being treated like some kid to be coaxed with praises and wheedling encouragement. He squirms restlessly as Mr. Jeon kisses him, his cock is achingly hard, leaking—has been since forever, it seems—and he needs to get off...

"No, Jun," Mr. Jeon chides gently, catching Sangjun's hand when it falls away from his waist, "What have I said about wandering hands?"

And Sangjun grasps the fine fabric of Mr. Jeon's shirt because what else can he do?

The sheets are cool against his back when he's pushed down onto them. His stomach flutters weirdly when Mr. Jeon gently pins his hands to the bed, palm-to-palm, threading their fingers together.

Then there's more kissing, slow and wet and hot...until Mr. Jeon's wicked tongue disappears and his moist lips trail kisses down Sangjun's jaw. And Sangjun readily bares his neck to those kisses because he fucking _loves_ the sensations. When he dares to grind his cock against Mr. Jeon's thigh—he needs the friction, _something_ —he can feel the smile against his neck...and when his hands are released, they immediately cling to Mr. Jeon's shoulders, clutch at his shirt.

He groans, nearly sobs with relief, when Mr. Jeon's hand finally, _finally_ wraps around his cock and jerks him off and it's so much better than his own hand. It doesn't take long, not with all his pent-up frustration, and he sees stars when orgasm rips through him.

While he catches his breath, Mr. Jeon retrieves a towel and takes his time cleaning the mess on Sangjun's skin. When he's done, he sets the towel aside and proceeds to spend the next few minutes just touching, wordless and attentive. His fingertips dip into every valley and over every ridge of the abdominal muscles; they trace along the grooves of hips, and follow the contours of one thigh, and then travel back up to patiently explore the torso.

Sangjun isn't familiar with this kind of intimacy, and he probably shouldn't enjoy it so much, but this is what Mr. Jeon wants—at least for now—and fuck if his body isn't responding...his breathing is picking up again, and he shivers when a palm slides over his chest, brushes over a nipple.

Mr. Jeon sighs with a pleasure that echoes Sangjun's. "Beautiful..."

"I'm just—just young, is all." A breathless, mindless response; his youthful body, characteristically enough, has been stirring with renewed interest from all the attention...

...Wait. _Shit_. He sits up quickly, focusing his attention on Mr. Jeon's lap. Before he can apologize for neglecting the other's pleasure, Mr. Jeon soothingly says, "Relax Jun, I'm quite all right."

"But—"

"Let me admire you for a while longer."

 _Fucking hell_... Sangjun ducks his head, face hot. His hands are bold though, as they slide over Mr. Jeon's legs. "Please, I want to see and—" he peers up through his lashes "—and touch you..."

Mr. Jeon stares wordlessly for a moment before closing his eyes. "You make it too easy to forget myself," he sighs, lying back onto the pillows.

"I should hope so," Sangjun busies himself with removing the belt, "when we're fuc—ah, together, like this."

"Such pretty language." There's laughter in that comment, and Sangjun grins, throwing aside the belt and unzipping the slacks. He kneels astride one of Mr. Jeon's legs, practically salivating as he eagerly tugs down the underwear trapping his prize.

"May I...?"

"Go ahead, Jun."

Finally. His hand wraps around Mr. Jeon's proudly erect cock as he bends down to taste the taut skin below the navel, nuzzle the beautifully engorged shaft. He reels from the _rightness_ of it when a hand settles on the back of head and fingers tangle in his hair, and when his lips touch the slick head, the moment feels like perfection.

Except—his first time giving head feels too sloppy overall, and that inexperience would make him feel deeply inadequate...if not for the breathy groans of pleasure, the affectionate petting and the hot approval in Mr. Jeon's beautifully harried voice, the soft reassurances. And, _It has to be a kind of drug_ , he wonders hazily: the weight and texture in his mouth, the width stretching his lips, how much he likes the taste and shape of it. Indescribably intoxicating. Spurred on by the encouragements, he gets plenty of practice, until his jaw starts to ache from the unfamiliarity of the work it's doing and Mr. Jeon comes down his throat with the sweetest of sighs.

They lie quietly in bed together for a while afterwards. Tucked against the warmth of Mr. Jeon's chest, Sangjun isn't sure he should be lazing about like this, feeling oddly weak and giddy, wallowing in the pleasure of light, teasing touches...but he's too content to want to move.

"Ah." Mr. Jeon suddenly but gently dislodges Sangjun's head to sit up. "I nearly forgot..." He leans over with a soft smile to caress Sangjun's cheek.

At the brush of a thumb over his lips, Sangjun kisses the pad and sucks the digit into his mouth. He smirks when Mr. Jeon, groaning, replaces thumb with tongue, and then he wraps his arms around lean shoulders, rolls his hips up against obscenely rumpled slacks.

It takes some effort before Mr. Jeon's attempt to pause turns serious and he resolutely moves away. "You, my dear Jun, are a deadly distraction," he murmurs fondly and gets off the bed.

Sangjun sits up, slightly curious but mostly missing the physical closeness. Accustomed to seeing prim and proper Mr. Jeon, he's intrigued by the disheveled clothing—the halfway unbuttoned shirt revealing a tempting stretch of pale skin, untucked over wrinkled and hastily zipped-up slacks. A pity he hasn't stripped yet, but it's a view that deserves to be appreciated until all the clothes _do_ come off; the night is young, after all.

He's so busy admiring that he doesn't really notice what Mr. Jeon retrieves from his briefcase until he's standing right in front of him.

"I spotted this during my last trip abroad," Mr. Jeon presents a small, green leather box, "and immediately I envisioned it decorating your wrist."

Sangjun stares in confusion—and then disbelief as the lid is opened. A luxury watch, its design understated, beautiful yet masculine. The stainless steel and gold links of the band glint mesmerizingly under the soft lamplight, and the stylized crown, standing out in relief at the twelve-hour mark, catches the eye.

Mr. Jeon takes out the watch and sets the box on the covers. Reflex makes Sangjun pull his left hand away when it's gently taken. Allowance money, books, stationery, souvenirs...those are normal gifts from family friends. Tailored suits and fancy dinners are somewhat above and beyond. But this—fuck—this isn't something he can easily accept, and he burrows his hand into the sheets when Mr. Jeon reaches again.

"Jun." There's an affectionate note of warning in his voice.

"I can't, sir."

"You can, and you will."

Sangjun keeps his eyes fixed on the knuckles of his right hand as he kneads the rumpled sheets with his left, and he's reluctant to lift his head when he feels the firm touch of fingers at his chin. He swallows hard as Mr. Jeon presses their lips together.

"This is my gift to you, Jun," Mr. Jeon murmurs against Sangjun's lips. "You must accept it."

"But I don't need..."

"Not immediately perhaps, but you will," Mr. Jeon says, his fingers light and teasing on Sangjun's arm, "and I want you to have it, Jun."

Sangjun relents, because it's the height of impoliteness to continue refusing, and he lifts his hand at the light but insistent tugging. The watch is clasped into place, the metal startlingly cool. Heart racing and face warming, he stares down at his wrist, at the second hand ticking away on the golden dial—and what a strange contrast. His knuckles are too banged up for the pristine timepiece; his fingers look too large and bony with too many little scars marring them to be resting so audaciously in Mr. Jeon's elegant hand.

"Lovely..." Mr. Jeon sighs, "Though I admit that I find myself enraptured by everything that you are."

...Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Sitting in a plush bed, naked but for the brand-new, genuine Rolex, with one of the very few men he holds in high esteem showering him with compliments, Sangjun has never in his life felt so adored or so pampered, and it's just _way_ too goddamn decadent.

Last in a line of renown street-fighters with the roughness to show for it, he has an impenetrable and very specific reputation in the streets. He _isn't_ just a dirty little thug, interested only in profits and preying on innocents; despite his reservations, he does take pride in the remnants of his family's old legacy that justify his fighting abilities. For fuck's sake, he's still in high school, and sure, he's mostly riding on the coattails of his father and grandfather, yet even so...he's not some second-rate, money-grubbing wannabe. He feels no need to decorate to show his worth—no matter how practical the decoration. Guys like him don't need to compensate for anything.

At last, the full reality of his situation sinks in. He's just had sex with Mr. Jeon, who apparently wants a young, warm, and _male_ body to share his bed, and he's received an expensive gift for it. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he would be in the kind of position that so many of the hooker noonas would kill to be in. How the fuck did he get here...?

His internal rambling stops when a hand frames his face, and he looks up to see the fondness in Mr. Jeon's smiling eyes. It's the expression he wears whenever he catches Sangjun lost in distraction.

"Happy birthday, my dear Jun."

"I—" Sangjun licks his lips. "Thank you sir." He closes his eyes when Mr. Jeon leans in, tilts his head to accept the kiss. When they separate for air, he whispers, "This...really is too much for a whore."

Mr. Jeon draws back sharply. "Jun," he says, a frown dampening the warmth in his eyes, "Never refer to yourself like that."

"But that's what I am." Sangjun doesn't see what the big deal is. "I'm aware of what you said earlier, that we would be lovers, but it doesn't make me any less of a whore. You've given me so many gifts..." Smiling ruefully, he reaches up to pluck at the buttons of Mr. Jeon's rumpled shirt. "And now," _even if it really isn't much_ , "I get to repay some of your generosity with my bod—"

"No." Mr. Jeon grabs the fingers playing with his shirt. "I have never tried to _buy_ you with those gifts. Earn your regard, your affection, perhaps, but—buy _this_?" he sweeps a meaningful look at Sangjun's nakedness. "Do not tell me that obligation is the only reason you agreed to this, Jun."

"No sir," Sangjun murmurs. Obligation plays a small part, yeah, but...he would never (never would have _thought_ to) sell his body, in this way, to anyone else. "If you'd asked, even without the lavish dinner or any of the gifts, I would gladly have agreed to warm your bed." _In a_ _way_ , he wants to add, _I'm so much easier than a whore_.

"Jun." Mr. Jeon's expression softens. "You are not a whore," he states as though it's an irrefutable fact, and kisses Sangjun's cheek. "You are my dashing young lover."

"...Yes sir," Sangjun capitulates. There's no point in arguing. While he might entertain fanciful ideas from time to time, he's not some delusional, naive idiot. He knows what little value he actually has to a powerful man like Jeon Jaeyong, even if Mr. Jeon doesn't want to see the truth.

Lee Sangjun is a geondal's son—a second son at that, to a dead second wife—with only fighting skills and average academics (and yeah he's going to get that fucking high school degree, even if the tedium kills him) to his name. The fact that they're family friends doesn't erase the reality of their positions in society...and he must always, always keep Mr. Jeon's position in mind.

There's just too vast a disparity. In the end, he's as replaceable as any streetwalking hooker to any wealthy businessman, and the affair will be as brief as a spring rain, as short-lived as any other lapse in judgment that makes rich men chase after their risky entertainments; he's heard and seen enough of such affairs. Affection and special treatment are sweet daydreams, hopes of 'better' are comforting fairytales...and between two _men_ , it is the most impossible situation. There's no future in this kind of secrecy; there's only the next handful of hours they'll spend together in their little bubble, before they each return to their respective worlds.

That's just how things work, and he isn't going to agonize over it. He's glad to be able to share this real part of himself with another like-minded man, so that he doesn't feel quite alone in his deviant desires. And if the man happens to be his father's friend—someone trustworthy, genuinely likable and admirable...well, there's no need to dwell on the nonessential parts. He's going to enjoy what he has.

"You're spacing out again, Jun."

Sangjun blinks as the gently amused voice cuts through his musings. "I just..." he trails off.

Mr. Jeon hums shortly—a sound that means he'll be as patient as he needs to be—and he plays with Sangjun's hair, while Sangjun unclasps the watch, stores it in its box, stares at the green leather for a few long moments.

Well. This is how things are to be. And there's a whole night ahead of them—not to be wasted.

Shaking off all irrelevant thoughts, Sangjun grins cheekily up at Mr. Jeon. "I was just thinking, sir," he sets the box aside, "of what I must do to keep your affections to myself." He stretches as he falls back onto the covers, languidly throwing his arms above his head, spreading his legs—and he's immediately validated, emboldened by the desire in Mr. Jeon's roaming gaze. "My pride won't tolerate my being such a lousy lover that you'd have to seek your pleasures elsewhere."

"Never fear, my beautiful Jun." Mr. Jeon traces the muscles at Sangjun's hip, murmurs, "Even if I wanted to, I doubt I can satisfy more than one young lover..."

And he joins Sangjun in bed again, peppering kisses up his stomach and chest and neck, semi-hard erection a tantalizing pressure, until he reaches his mouth and holds his gaze.

"I don't expect you to confine your intimate encounters to me," a kiss on the lips, "but I do confess..." and a kiss on the brow, and a rueful sigh, "I will worry about your interest straying."

"Not an issue, sir, for the foreseeable future."

 _Not at all_...Sangjun exerts some of his usual strength, previously unused in this context, to roll them over. He sits on Mr. Jeon's stomach and—oh, there's definitely enough lust sparking in those brilliant eyes to replace the unnecessary worry.

He shifts until he can feel the hardness nudging him, and bends forward to speak against parted lips. "There's so much yet to learn from you."

Yeah, he's happy with this, and he'll do everything in his power to ease Mr. Jeon's concerns.

* * *

The weeks pass, school restarts. Sangjun focuses on his studies, and his father is supportive of this decision—distant as ever but supportive, and bemused. As long as he does the bare minimum of work, there's no problem, and business is booming.

He catches a couple more glimpses of the Tiger of Hyegwang, embroiled in the stupidest of situations. But the memories of his lustful fantasies, of their heated confrontation, fade under the pressures of graduation looming ever closer, of juggling school and family like usual. A fleeting crush, easily forgotten as Mr. Jeon—busy as he is traveling and taking care of his business in Seoul—continues to make his extra-special visits.

When he thinks about all the hours he's spent indulging in their secret taboo, Sangjun feels an oddly heavy weight in his chest; at the same time, picturing Mr. Jeon's handsome, open smiles makes everything better. He ruthlessly snuffs out all impractical, impossible flights of fancy, whenever they try to distract him with insidious suggestions of his attachment being anything more than a crush. They have a convenient physical relationship. All he needs to do is obey, be good, pretend to the world that nothing's changed between them, while Mr. Jeon indulges in his bit of fun. Yeah...it's not so easy for any man of means to squander away the chance to fool around when given the opportunity, and Sangjun _wants_ to give himself, wants it for himself too; who else is there? It's a win-win for both of them.

That's what he keeps telling himself until one day, when the leaves have started to fall and cool air nips at his skin.

He's alone in his dingy little office, expense books spread out in front of him. A bottle of imported whisky and a pack of cigarettes accompany his celebration of the fact that he just finished taking the preliminary college entrance exams. Not that passing those makes much of a difference, since he's going straight to the army after graduation—he can actually do it, he has no felonies on record, no tattoos to boldly proclaim what he is—and then...who knows what, after those three years?

It's a recent decision, made after acknowledging the stupidest thing because he's never been so great at continuing to lie to himself: he's at least a _little_ in love with Mr. Jeon—might be more than _just_ a tiny crush.

And he's frustrated with himself. Yeah, he's not a genius, but he's smarter than _this_. He absolutely knows that he's just a plaything, that he has no right to desire anything more, that he has no real place in Mr. Jeon's life. Successful and elegant and as clean as any wealthy businessman can be, married and a father to children Sangjun's age... _fuck_. He roughly scrubs his fingers through his hair and lights up another cigarette.

33 months serving his mandatory sentence as the military's mindless little dog. 33 months of justifiable radio silence between himself and Mr. Jeon. That'll fix him...that'll _have_ to get rid of the goddamn stupid little heartaches, right? Beat the sentimentality out of him again. And then he'll come back to this life as a gangster, for _real_ this time—let himself be caught (finally) for his misdeeds, spend some time in jail, _earn_ that title and get that tattoo.

Or maybe...—he flips to the next page of the expense book—maybe tertiary education...? He stops that ridiculous line of thinking immediately; guys like him don't fucking _go to college_ just like that...(and yet...)

He takes an imprudent swig of the whisky, relishes the burn searing down his throat. He hasn't told anyone his plans; he's been hedging—easier with his family than with Mr. Jeon, who keeps not-so-subtly pushing him to continue his studies—and he'll keep doing that until he can't.

But for now...there are numbers to be crunched, a bottle of good whisky to be drained, and the exciting prospect of another tryst with Mr. Jeon tomorrow.

* * *

END 2/2


End file.
